Faire des Achats
by Hriviel
Summary: Leroux makes it clear that every once in a while Erik braves the streets of Paris to buy provisions and supplies. How does each seller react to this mysterious masked man?
1. The Dress Maker

**FAIRE DES ACHATS**

_by Hriviel

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_Author's note: Hello, readers! This idea came to me this morning when I went to work at 10 AM. And by my first break, I had names and a plot. So at 8 or so, when I got home, I began typing out my notes and thoughts. Leroux makes it pretty clear that Erik ventures out of the opera house to get supplies and food, etc... I started wondering what sellers' assorted reactions would be to this mysterious masked man. Mostly Leroux-based, with Kay influence (i.e., Erik as a person, not so much a psycho...though I am a big fan of Leroux!Erik), and ALW touches and references--don't you just love canon blending? So far, it's a one-shot, but if I get positive reviews asking for more, I may write a few more vignettes; from the baker, the jeweler, the fruit-seller, the wine-seller, the art supplies seller, (my fave...the street performer!), and others. The title is French; "Faire des achats" means "to shop"--not original, but it works. After posting this I swear I'll get back to work on "Haunted."

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_**THE DRESS-MAKER**_

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He was back.

Jeanette Gauthier looked up from her needlepoint when the brass bell suspended above the shop door let out a musical jangle. The afternoon sunshine was warm and gentle, slanting in through the windows facing the Rue Choiseul. She had been forming a cross-stitch from burgundy floss, when she set down her small wooden hoop and stood politely in the presence of her only customer.

"Good day, Monsieur," she greeted pleasantly, hands folded in front of her.

Her customer gave a curt nod by means of a greeting. He was very tall and thin, nigh on alarmingly so, but he was dressed in rich gentleman's evening clothes, expertly tailored. Narrow trousers of light wool, a shapely waistcoat, velvet-trimmed evening coat, and voluminous cravat, all ebony black. He also wore a cloak with a wide cowl on his shoulders that reached his ankles, and a fedora perched on his head. There was a flash of the white of his shirt collar just beneath his jaw. But oddest of his attire was the mask. It was ebony and blank, and covered his entire face. Yet strangely, his voice was not muffled, despite being covered. In fact, it had seemed to float just before her own face when she had served him last.

She watched with a perfectly friendly curiosity as he inspected the sample dresses out on faceless mannequins. They were some of Jeanette's best work on display because Madame Dumoulin's latest fashions were unfinished, and the proprietress wanted a new set out today. The apprentice and clerk had worked tirelessly on the soft green velvet frock with the trailing bustle, from the elaborate bodice to the ruffled sleeves. And the Bordeaux-coloured evening gown of shimmering taffeta, with its clean lines and immense, gathered skirts. Every miniscule stitch Jeanette's hand had patiently made in the fine fabric. There were others out, but suddenly the man turned away from the fashion display and walked noiselessly up the table where she stood.

Jeanette averted her eyes and looked over the long order sheet next to her needlepoint, a picture of an angel dressed in dark red robes. She flipped through the pages. "Have you an order to pick up today, sir?"

Just a fortnight ago, she had shown him the four new dresses--blue, gold, black, and red--made specifically to a set of measurements he had left with the order. They'd been crafted from the best fabrics in lovely designs. He had inspected each painstakingly while Jeanette's stomach did flips, and her hand toyed with the silver bracelet on her wrist. Then, he spoke one word: "Good," and she had wrapped each into a brown paper parcel.

But today, he didn't speak for a moment. Then, he said almost diffidently, "I would like to see your inventory of white silks and laces, Mademoiselle."

"Certainly." She nodded and smiled.

Jeanette was brisk and efficient as she moved easily from the inventory room back to the tabletop, piling up roll after roll of pale fabric and trimmings. There were thick, plush velvets, sheer silks, all imported from around the world. And the laces! Bruxelles, Chantilly, Venetian, Flemish, Flandres, Point d'Angleterre, Point de Paris...It was dizzying. She rarely touched the fine white materials, as her mistress took and executed all the bridal orders.

In her best sales pitch voice, she began, "Well, Monsieur... we have this ice-white satin, very fine. We have Chinese silks in every shade from pure white to this cream here, both plain and patterned. And laces, we carry many types, fit for any occasion."

"A wedding," came the voice, that, once again, seemed to float just in front of her. She felt like she could reach out and touch it.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur?"

"The occasion," he said softly, "is a wedding."

"I see," she replied evenly. "Do you like any of these?"

Her customer pushed aside each roll, unsatisfied with the brightness of one, the yellowness of another, the garish pattern on this, the poor quality of that. Jeanette held her breath. Madame Dumoulin wouldn't pay her commission this week, if she didn't make a sale. And she wouldn't be able to buy the ivory charm she longed for at the jeweler's. But fortunately, the fingers encased in black leather slowly brushed a sample near the bottom of the pile.

He settled on a shimmering ivory damask with a beautiful, flowing rose pattern. "This. Nine metres, please."

"Very good, sir." She opened the drawer of the counter and removed a pair of sharp, silver shears and a measuring tape. She carefully measured the fabric, then drew the pen from where it sat tucked above her ear, and drew a faint line. Then, with the shears, she began to cut the rich material. The silence was broken only by the low, grinding snip of the scissors.

During this affair, the customer watched her intently. Of course she couldn't see his facial expression, but she thought he was studying her with eyes that were golden and curious. "Your work is quite admirable, Mademoiselle."

Jeanette blushed, but her humble manners spoke up for her. "Madame Dumoulin does much of the shop's work; I am merely her apprentice."

The deep chuckle that stirred the air surprised her. Even more so, the blunt comment that followed. "Cécile Dumoulin's work is shabby, put kindly. Half the time she cannot even stitch a straight seam."

The apprentice was at a loss for words. She would never have dreamed that her perfect façade of impeccable manners would crack, and she would push aside a lock of dark hair threaded with premature silver and answer, "Indeed, sir! She is often too busy gossiping, or sleeping, or drinking... or-or criticizing _me_!"

It felt surprisingly good to laugh, at Mme Dumoulin, at herself; and her false smile that she wore at work was replaced by a genuine one as she folded the silk damask neatly and set it aside.

"Now, what about the laces, Monsieur?"

Lace he considered far more carefully. Even still, some were too bulky, too narrow, too provincial... Jeanette pushed aside the rejected samples, and the rest sat seriously on the countertop. She looked over the patterns swirling in the country-style laces discarded by the man. Those that he retained were elegant and romantic. One more roll he shoved to the side deliberately. Jeanette began to wonder if he would find one he fancied enough to purchase.

Then, he brushed his gloved fingertips over a length of intricate, eggshell lace, gathered into fine ruffles. "Twenty metres, if you please."

She easily cut the immense length of lace, and asked, "Is there anything you need, sir?"

He asked her in his tentative voice to see any other trimmings she deemed appropriate. Thinking of a wildly romantic wedding as suggested by the lace he selected, she showed him beautiful beading, appliqués, false flowers, and other wonderful things kept in a cabinet by Madame Dumoulin. In the end, he chose a few fine finishing details.

Ten grams of seed pearls with needle-eyes bored into them. Two dozen white roses made of silk by hand. Some delicate trimming lace. Gold embroidery floss.

The last thing he bought was snow white tulle. Jeanette held a length of it in her hand, and was surprised by its softness; most tulle she had handled was coarse and used as rough, scratchy petticoat material. This was beautiful, and sheer as frost on a window Christmas morning. She knew instinctively that it was for the bride's veil.

"How much, Monsieur?"

He looked at the extra-fine tulle and answered quietly, "All of it."

Jeanette's dark eyes widened. Surely, his total balance would be sky-high! But...the customer knew his purchase best, her mistress always insisted, when alert and watching her like an eagle. "Will that be all today?"

"Yes."

The clerk and apprentice swiftly and neatly wrapped the materials into a parcel, folding the edges together, and wrapping the corners in; she finished by tying it with cotton twine. She calculated the prices, scribbling her multiplication and addition on a blank pad. "That comes to ... nine hundred and eighty-three francs, Monsieur."

"But of course." There was an amused smile in his voice, as he handed her one thousand francs in cash. She counted it out, and placed in the cashbox, took out his change, and locked it.

Sparing a glance at her masked customer, Jeanette murmured, "Here you are, sir. Thank you."

He took the packages and turned away. But when he reached the door, he tipped his black hat. "_Merci_, Mademoiselle."

The only thing she could say in reply was what she said to every other customer: "_Bonne journée_."


	2. The Jeweller

**Authoress' Note: **_Hi, it's me! So I'm at an impasse writing "A Perfect Cage," my current main story. This fic seems like it will become my writer's block therapy. Thank you so much to my lovely friend Dara for her help in preparing this manuscript, lol. Enjoy!_

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_**THE JEWELLER**_

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"_Desolé_, Monsieur," he called out irritably, wiping down the countertop. _Merde_, there was a stubborn spot right there in the centre. "I'm sorry, sir, but we are closing for the night." 

The steady footsteps that had entered the shop paused.

Robert Rizière glanced up warily at the last customer. When he saw the black mask, his first panicked thought was that a criminal was in his midst: a thief and a murderer. A jolt of fear stabbed the portly Provençal man. There was an air of intense power surrounding the dark figure just inside the threshold of the small, insignificant jewellery shop on the Rue de Bepri. Lanky yet elegant, the man was not clad in the typical rags of a street renegade. Instead, the stranger wore an immaculate evening tuxedo; his dress shirt and bowtie had the bright white sheen of silk, and intricate beading lined the high collar of his long cloak. With a deft movement, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and flung something carelessly at the proprietor.

A small purse hit the counter several centimetres from Robert's hand, where it rested on the glass-topped display case. It gave off the jangle of heavy coins.

Music to Robert Rizière's ears.

"I trust you will stay open somewhat later this evening, sir." Measured tones. Precise enunciation. Robert hadn't met a criminal on the streets of Paris yet who dressed like a gentleman, and spoke with a cold, cultured voice.

He relaxed about two hairs, scooping up the change purse greedily. Decidedly more polite, he said guardedly, "May I help you, my good Monsieur?"

"I'm looking for a ring." The clipped, succinct statement was oddly melodic and clear, like notes drawn from a violin. He slowly drifted over to the side cases of lesser pocket watches and silver bracelets.

"A ring?" The sweet hypnotic song of money and profit hummed in Robert's ears, even more so than his customer's musical voice.

"Yes …" The man seemed about to say more, but that one word dissolved into silence. For just a split-second, he seemed unsure of himself, and the remote, powerful demeanour wavered.

And in that moment, he was just an ordinary suitor uncertain if the woman he adored would reject him. Awkwardly, Robert turned away, muttering about fine gems and beautiful settings.

Cautiously, Robert unlocked the storage cabinet, where he locked his more valuable baubles. There were lovely pendants of sapphires and emeralds strung on delicate chains, long strands of milky pearls, rubies that sparkled with fire. He withdrew a few trays of rings, and laid them side by side before the cloaked man, who gave them a cool, appraising once-over.

"Do you have a light?" the customer said imperiously.

Robert reluctantly switched on his gas lights, illuminating the display. The gems drank up the small light and threw back a dazzling rainbow of glittering colours. The emeralds spoke of endless green fields in summer, the springtime buds of the trees, the deepest mysterious depth of the seas. The sapphires, well, they called out the ocean's magnificent surf as well, but also of the midnight skies when winter's chill held the veil of moisture to the ground, and the stars and the moon paled. Pearls shimmered with the silvery light of that moon, the perfectly round specimens luminous. The rubies and garnets were harbingers of fire; of passion and blood, darkness and flames. One could peer into a garnet and see Hades' kingdom. But the diamond, ah, that was what drew the masses in. Robert, as cynical and enterprising as we was, still found himself dumbstruck when he thought of how an ordinary rock could be transformed into a near-magical prism--white, but flinging out every colour imaginable.

His thoughts were interrupted as the stranger inspected some of the rings.

"This ruby--it's scratched," said the man contemptuously. "And this sapphire's clarity is terrible. Just look how unsuited it is for that cut."

Robert resisted the temptation to rub his wounded pride. This man off the streets was criticising his most valuable pieces! Well, the proprietor thought scornfully, I shall show him a perfect jewel!

"Let me show you a very special one, Monsieur," he managed in his best polite tone.

Robert's finger's trembled as he lifted his most prized item from its hidden nook below the display. It was an enormous round diamond of magnificent cut and clarity, ringed with smaller stones of no less quality. The band was smooth, polished, pale yellow gold. He held it out to the stranger, and breathed, "What do you think, sir?"

The masked man took it gingerly between his leather-gloved fingers. He slowly turned it this way and that, making the large jewel twinkle like a star in the dim light. Robert almost smiled; the price on this diamond would be high enough to scratch the heavens.

"No." The customer set the ring down, the stone facing away from him.

"I have a case--" The old jeweller blinked in surprise. "_No_?"

"It's far too extravagant. A gift for a woman scorned or ignored or simply used as an ornament herself."

"Perhaps so. But a beautiful wife that glitters is a fine thing to show," Robert added casually.

Suddenly his customer's demeanour changed; suppressed rage and violence stiffened his shoulders and the eyes in the mask blazed. Illuminated by one shaft of lamplight, Robert saw that one was a cloudy pale blue, and the other dark as night.

"A fine thing," he spat dangerously, flexing the fingers of his left hand. "No more than an _accessory_, something to show!"

Robert cowered. "Please, Monsieur, I meant no offence!"

"No, no, of course not," the strange man muttered. But his threatening stance relented. "The beauty of the rings you sell is tainted by your ignorance. I'm not interested in any of these." He indicated the beautiful jewelled rings with a quick, sweeping gesture.

Robert clumsily shoved them back into the safe below the glass display, afraid of this bizarre customer, and disappointed in the seeming lack of a sale.

"How much are these?" The stranger in the mask indicated a scarlet velvet tray of wedding bands that Robert hadn't put away yet.

"These?" The plain rings were a stark contrast to the intricate and lovely settings of filigree that was so fashionable these days. There were no curlicues, no tiny roses, no inscriptions of love declarations. These rings were promises. Not of wealth or stature, but of love everlasting. Robert named a modest price.

"I'll take this one." The ring he pointed to with one long, bony finger was the smallest ring there. It would only fit a small lady's gracile finger; it was slender, simple, and made of shining gold.

"Very well, Monsieur." Robert placed the ring into a small case, and wrapped it in paper.

The customer dropped the money onto the counter offhandedly. He picked up the little box and tossed it lightly into the air. Catching it with one thin hand, Robert blinked in surprised as it seemed to disappear. "_Bonsoir_, Monsieur."

The masked man left the shop, and Robert let out a sigh of relief. He carefully counted the money, making sure the exact amount was there. He grinned. So, it was well worth serving that crazy customer!

Robert reached back into the hidden chamber for his prized diamond. When his fingers brushed nothing but the bare shelf, he felt around more insistently. Nothing.

_It was gone! _

Robert searched the shelf, but all in vain. His most prized item had vanished. He scoured the shelf and the trays of jewellery. He crawled along the floors, straining his eyes for any hint of lustre. He cursed the late customer vehemently, imagining the masked man's mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief as he tossed the diamond into the air and laughed at the theft.

He returned home to his flat that night sullen and resigned, fretting over his sales and the bills due this week. He clicked on his lamp with a heavy heart and sat heavily in his wooden chair, but found that something dug into the back of his thigh.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out something that sparkled in the golden lamplight.

An enormous round diamond ring.


End file.
